


Burnt

by orphan_account



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Edema, Hallucinations, Other, Post-Movie(s), Valhalla is hard to get to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 02:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4503726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say it's not the fire that kills you, but the smoke.</p>
<p>Sometimes, it's both at once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burnt

Valhalla is hotter than he thought.

It's not the paradise Nux had grown up believing, the far-reaching land of chrome highways and rivers of aqua cola and guzzoline. No - no, it isn't anything like that. There's no cars or warriors, just heat and sand and a horrible throbbing sensation in his head. Nux blinks once and his vision fills with blood and grease. This Valhalla is too dark and alien and painful - it feels like Hel.

He opens his eyes and this time, he can see. The sunlight blazes off the sand, turns everything into a too-bright orange that sears his eyes and makes them water. All around him is grey and black and red, muddled together, cut with a swirl of sky blue. He tries to sit up but something is pinning his left leg down. Everything past his knee is a sharp burning pain and Nux can't understand why. Valhalla shouldn't _hurt_.

Valhalla shouldn't look like the inside of the War Rig.

Realization comes like a punch in the gut. For the fourth time in his miserable half-life, the gates had closed, leaving him battered and bruised in a burning metal shell. He isn't driving with fallen heroes, he's stuck against the passenger side of the War Rig, a gash on his forehead dripping blood onto the shattered window. "I live, I die, I live again," Nux mumbles, his voice rough from grit and smoke.

_Valhalla is for the chrome_ , he tells himself, _the shiny, the worthy_. Not the ones who crash the Immortan's prized War Rigs. _He's gonna_ shred _you_. Nux can’t wait for _that_ mediocre death, being turned into fertilizer to feed the worthy War Boys that aren't complete disappointments to Immortan Joe -

But, he realizes with a sudden fluttery rush of hysteria, there is no more disappointing him. Immortan Joe is dead. He's dead, and Slit, too - _crushed between two speeding War Rigs, as shiny a death as any_ \- and so many more in the last few days.

Was Capable one of them? He struggles to sit only for the pain to grow to agonizing levels. The crash – they must have gotten away, they had to – the Rig had flipped and blocked the pass. He remembers seeing her in the Gigahorse, her and the little wife with the headband and one of the Many Mothers. He remembers the three of them watching him die, the war machine blazing as it turned.

There’s fire in the air and he coughs wetly, his mouth filling with a coppery tang. The heavy scent of heat disorients him and he fights to keep the panic down.

He knows how bad an engine fire can get - years of being a blackthumb have shown him more than he ever wanted to see – but thinking of ways to escape it is impossible with the pain in his leg growing by the second. It's not triumphant pain, like when he got his V8 scars or from time spent in the Pits. It’s white-hot and sickening. Nux glances downward, tries to assess the damage to his leg – and it’s like there’s no leg at all. All he can see is seared flesh and the singed leather of the passenger seat, torn loose in the crash.

There's normal skin, and then there's char and blood and a tremendous weight. Past the weight and the pain is numbness, and Nux doesn't know if he's in shock or dying or both.

_Other War Boys have come back from worse, I can make it_ , he reasons, but the pressure and the smell of cooking meat nauseate him. Nux coughs again, rougher this time. The smoky air rips through his chest. It hurts to breathe – hurts so much more than usual - and this time it isn't because of Larry and Barry, but because of the fire filling the cab.

The War Rig is burning around him. It's going up in flames, and Nux is trapped inside.

Kicking against the seat, using his good leg as leverage, he tries to slide out from under it. His muscles ache from the effort and he’s already winded; he hears a sick rattling in his chest. He's childishly scared and too frustrated to move. He sits up to free himself, and he chokes to death. He lays there, and he burns. A mediocre death for a mediocre War Boy, trapped under a damn _chair_.

"I’m not gonna die here,” he says, and he eyes the scrap of fabric tied around his wrist. Four times the gates were open, four times he'd tried, and for the first time in his life, he's glad Valhalla rejected him. He would _not_ die soft in this wreck, cowering when he could he escaping.

Nux takes as deep a breath as he can and leans forward. The heat is so much sharper against his skin and he can feel the acidic sting of sweat dripping off his face and into the wounds from the wreck. He works his hands under the heavy leather, using his three good limbs to pry it off. The seat slides forward and he’s so relieved he laughs, choking in the smoke. The bones of his leg stand out, stark white against the ash and the black. Another second of lifting, and the seat comes loose. Nux scrambles away and his head bangs into the Rig’s roof, stunning him, but not as badly as the sight of his leg. He grits his teeth and looks away. Right now he’s _out_ , and one ruined leg won’t stop him from making it back to the Citadel.

At first, he can't see a way out through the blinding smoke. He flails wildly, looking for some kind of exit, and he grazes the cover of the open sunroof. He's mere inches from air and a haven from the fire. Nux turns himself over and grips the edge, ignoring the way his skin sizzles on the hot metal. He pushes off with his good leg and manages to get halfway through. There’s no air in the cab anymore, only smoke, sour and black, burning his eyes and throat. His limbs feel like they’ve been turned to rocks.

He goes again and gets further still, but not far enough. The edge digs into his hips. Everything feels so cold despite the fire. He scrabbles in the sand for something, anything he can use to pull himself out, and Nux sees the tips of his fingers are a mottled purplish color. The thickness in his chest doesn’t leave him – he’s not breathing smoke anymore, just clean air, and it still feels like he’s drowning. He can’t breathe at all.

Nux hacks into the sand, spits, a wad of bloody something staining the ground. Panic shocks through his stomach. He tries to stand and crawl out of the War Rig but nothing will move. His hips twist against the metal, his numb legs don’t respond. Nux puts both hands on the sides of the sunroof and his unburned skin blisters from the heat. He forces himself to lean back into the cab and dives forward, barely moving an inch – but an inch is all he needs. He careens face-first into the sand, gasping and aching and alive.

He made it out.

No more fire, no more smoke.

The flames are on the inside and Nux is on the outside, and he’s going to be okay.

“I’m gonna be okay,” he says, and he’s sure of it. Just as sure as he can see Capable, kneeling before him, with the rest of the Wives behind her. All of them, even the Splendid Angharad, flanked closely by Blood Bag and Furiosa – but even though he can see them clear as day, something still feels wrong, unnatural, _false_. He feels a painful surge of disbelief and reaches out towards them. Capable takes his hand, her skin cool and soothing on his, and Nux calms, his vision blackening and a comfortable slowness filling his brain.

“’m all burnt up."

She squeezes his hand and smiles. “It’s alright, War Boy.”

No more fire, no more pain, no more air. All he can feel is Capable’s hand in his.

And then, Nux feels nothing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> this poor fuck just can't catch a break, can he


End file.
